Blackberry Winter

by Maryanne Fischler

  “That’s okay, sweetheart, are you all right?” his concern carried over the telephone line as clearly as the words themselves.

  “I feel awful about the things I said to you the other day. I don’t know what possessed me to be so ugly. I didn’t want to wait any longer to apologize. I’m sorry, Brian.”

  “It’s all right. Don’t worry about it. I understood why you were so angry. I should have told you the truth.”

  “I’m going to let you get back to sleep, Brian. Do you want to come and see me tomorrow?” She asked timidly, as though afraid of the answer.

  “Of course I do. I can hardly wait. Sleep well, Emily. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  When Brian arrived at the hospital the next morning, and tapped on the door, he was told to wait. After what seemed an inordinately long time, the door finally opened and the nurse emerged, laundry in tow. Brian knocked and was invited in.

  “Good morning, did you enjoy your bath?” he asked smiling.

  “It was certainly a major production number trying to keep this cast dry and these tubes untangled.” As she spoke, she was gingerly combing her hair. “It feels good to be clean again. So you had two days to yourself, what have you been up to?”

  “Just odds and ends, mostly I thought about you,” he answered.

  “Yes, I can well imagine what you must have been thinking about me. You sit around this awful hospital for days and days worrying yourself sick, only to be thrown out on your ear by a shrew.”

  “Well, it’s forgotten now. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Not much. I pitched a fit with the psychiatrist they sent in here yesterday. I must never take Paul’s good sense for granted again, because the one they sent me didn’t have any. So that’s two men I’ve thrown out of here. Why do you put up with such an ill-tempered woman?”

  Brian smiled and crossed the room, sitting next to her on the bed. “I can think of several reasons.” He leaned over the bed with the intention of kissing her, but felt her stiffen and asked, “Is something the matter?”

  “No, I just had a little twinge in my arm, it’s nothing.”

  Brian walked over to read the monitors on the pain machine at the side of the bed. “You know you’ve hardly used any of this. Are you sure you understand how it works? All you have to do is push the button when you have pain. You don’t enjoy having your arm hurt, do you?”

  “It just isn’t that bad.”

  “Emily, darling, love of my life, it doesn’t have to be ‘that bad.’” He was trying, with limited success, not to sound exasperated.

  Brian was prepared to lecture her kindly on the fallacy of the saying “no pain, no gain” when the orthopedic surgeon came in and examined Emily’s arm briefly. Brian couldn’t help but notice that Emily’s jaw stayed clenched throughout the whole examination, even when the doctor was barely touching her fingertips. It wasn’t as if she was in pain so much as she seemed intensely uncomfortable with the idea that someone was touching her.

  Dr. Vogler came shortly after that and Brian waited outside. When the neurologist emerged, Brian asked him, “How long do you foresee it will be necessary for Emily to stay in the hospital?”

  “That’s difficult to say. I’d say several more days at least.” This answer seemed to Brian to be evasive. He decided to be blunt.

  “I’d like to take her home as soon as possible. Obviously we won’t be getting married Saturday, but I’d at least like to have her out of the hospital on her intended wedding day.”

  “I doubt that’s going to be possible, Dr. McClellan. We’ll have to see what kind of progress she makes.” With that, he left.

  Brian went back into the room to find Emily squirming around in her bed. “That man makes me nervous,” she said. “Poke, poke, poke. And always, ‘Does that hurt?’ When he knows perfectly well what hurts.”

  “I have to admit he’s not at the top of my list of favorite people either, but he is supposed to be one of the best around in his field. You know, poking at you is his job.” Brian tried not to sound condescending, as one doctor automatically sticking up for another.

  Emily’s response was a sighed, “I suppose so.” She lay back in bed with her eyes closed.

  Brian could read that face like he could read a lab report on an autopsy. He knew what she was thinking even when she steadfastly refused to admit it. He crossed the room and took her hand in his. “Tell me where it hurts.”

  Automatically she responded, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I know you don’t, you never do. Do you think it will hurt less if you refuse to acknowledge it? It hurts me when I know you’re in pain and you’re wasting your energy trying to be stoic.”

  “That’s not fair, Brian. How many times have I seen you at the end of a long day dragging that leg around, obviously in pain, and do you ever come to me and say, ‘Emily, I hurt’?” She made no effort to hide the annoyance she felt.

  “No, I guess I don’t. I don’t like to emphasize the fact that I’m disabled.” His voice had grown suddenly small.

  Emily saw his discomfort and her face flushed as she fought back the frustration that had been gathering throughout the conversation. “Brian, I’m sorry. I’m being cruel because I’m angry. I hate this. I hate that stupid machine that is supposed to stop the pain, I hate having tubes in my arm, I hate everything about this place. I hate wondering what I should have done differently so that I wouldn’t have gotten attacked, but I don’t know because I don’t even know how it happened. Yes, I hurt. My head hurts, and my arm hurts, and it hurts when I breathe, and it hurts where he...” She stopped to catch a breath, and because she didn’t have the strength to say aloud what she wanted to say about where she hurt.

  As he was listening to her tirade, Brian knew it all had to come out. There was a voice inside him saying “Cry, Emily. I know you. You’ll feel better if you cry.” But her eyes remained dry and her voice got colder and harder with every word she spoke.

  “I don’t know who to hate. Shall I hate God because of this? I told you you shouldn’t hate God because He let you get hurt in the war, so how can I hate Him for this? There’s a nameless, faceless stranger out there with B positive blood and my engagement ring in his pocket. Shall I hate him, shall I let my hatred of him sour my life?” Suddenly the pace and tone of her voice changed. The anger left it and it became flat and lifeless. She took a deep breath and continued in a slow, soft voice, “Last night when I called you so late, it occurred to me that you were in your bed, undressed. I’ve had that in my mind for months, the image of you like that, and I’ve fantasized about what it would be like to be in that bed with you. It was always pleasant . But now when I think about it, it scares me to death. And then my fear makes me ashamed.”

  The little voice in Brian was saying, “All right, if you won’t cry, I will.” He struggled for several moments to control his voice. He crossed the room to look at the flowers on the table, and then returned to her side. “I can understand your anger. I’d be worried if you weren’t angry about all of this. I can understand, too, why you feel hostile about what happened and about what you’re still having to go through here. I can even understand why you’re afraid to be close to me. I know that I’ll have to be very gentle and very patient, and that’s fine. But I can’t see any reason why you should feel ashamed. You haven’t done anything to be ashamed of. There wasn’t anything you should or could have done to stop what happened. I think that you’re using the pain you feel to punish yourself for something that isn’t your fault. I think it’s something you learned to do a long time ago.”

  Emily pondered what Brian had said for some time before making her reply. “If I promise to do better about taking the pain medicine, will you forgive me for being so difficult?”

  “Sounds like a good deal to me.” he said with a little smile.

  Wednesday afternoon Emily enjoyed the company of several visitors. After actually managing to eat some of
her lunch, with a lot of encouragement from Brian, she took a short nap. There was a knock on the door that woke her, and Detective Hoffstedter came in. Brian introduced the policeman to Emily. The detective explained to Brian that he had finally gotten permission from Dr. Vogler to ask Miss Stone a few questions.

  “I don’t want to tire you, Miss Stone, so if you feel at any time that you’d like me to go, just say so.” At her nod, he began his interrogation.

  “What is the last thing you remember about Wednesday?”

  Emily looked thoughtful, “I went to work at the library. I parked in my regular place. I went inside and the ladies had a surprise wedding shower for me. It was very nice. Then I worked for a while. I had lunch at my desk with some of the other people in my department. Then I worked on the computer for a while. I packed my gifts up to take them home.” After a pause, she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything after that.”

  “Was there anything unusual in the garage that morning, perhaps a vehicle you didn’t recognize?” In true Southern style, the detective pronounced a heavy ‘h’ in vehicle.

  “There were more cars there than usual at that hour, but it was because of the shower.”

  “Did you have any occasion to go out to your car during the day Wednesday?”

  “No. I never left the building all day.”

  “Have you had the sensation at any time lately that someone was following you?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had trouble of any sort with an old boyfriend, or perhaps a man asked you out and you turned him down and he didn’t like it?”

  Emily smiled, “I don’t have any old boyfriends, nor any jilted suitors. The truth is that until Dr. McClellan came along, I was your standard issue, old-maid librarian.”

  Detective Hoffstedter returned her smile, “I find that hard to believe, a pretty lady like you.”

  What Brian found hard to believe was that this charming person was the same detective who had acted as if he considered both he and Paul suspects at one time. That surprise didn’t last long.

  The questions were continuing, “Miss Stone, as part of my investigation, I talked to your doctors about your injuries. One of them told me that at some time in the past you had two other ribs broken, as well quite a few other injuries, and probably not treated. I realize it’s a mighty nosy question, but I need to know if you’ve ever been assaulted before. How did you get those other bones broken?”

  Emily was obviously uncomfortable with the tack the conversation was taking, “I can’t imagine.”

  Brian felt as if he had endured a blow himself. How could a person have broken ribs and not know it? He was reminded of Paul’s speculation about Emily’s childhood. He asked quickly, “Emily, you always said your father had a terrible temper, did he ever hit you hard enough to hurt you like that? Could he have...?”

  But Emily interrupted him, “I don’t know. I think I hurt myself once when I fell out of a tree.”

  The Detective asked, “How old were you when that happened? Did you see a doctor?”

  Emily looked genuinely puzzled. “What can that possibly have to do with what happened last Wednesday?”

  Again Brian interjected, speaking quite calmly under the circumstances. “The detective is trying to ascertain whether you have a boyfriend who makes a habit of beating you. It’s part of his job. Why don’t you answer his question? I’d like to hear about this falling out of a tree business myself.”

  “I was twelve. It was just a couple of weeks before school started. I wasn’t supposed to climb trees, but the boys teased me, so I climbed this old oak tree in the woods behind the house. I was up really high and I lost my footing and fell. I guess I was out for a few minutes, because when I opened my eyes, the boys were long gone. It hurt something awful when I breathed, but I knew if I told anyone, I’d be in a lot of trouble, so I didn’t tell. I just sort of stayed out of sight, mostly I just stayed on my bed, for the rest of the summer. I guess that’s when I broke those ribs.” After a pause to catch her breath, she turned and focused her attention on the detective. “You didn’t really think Brian would do something like that, did you?”

  For once, Hoffstedter looked slightly embarrassed, “No, ma’am, of course not, but like he said, it’s my job to ask.”

  Emily said apologetically, “Well, I haven’t been very helpful, have I?”

  “Obviously you can’t say what you can’t remember. I would ask that if anything does come to mind, if you do remember anything at all, please let me know.”

  “I certainly will.”

  When Emily and Brian were alone again, he said, “You never told me about that fall of yours.”

  “That was when I was a kid, Brian. I climbed a tree I wasn’t supposed to climb and hurt myself. It rather paled into insignificance when I compared it to things that have happened to you .”

  “Why didn’t you tell somebody when you were so hurt?” he asked, his concern still very much apparent.

  “I would have gotten in trouble. I know, it was stupid, what can I say? I was a stupid child.”

  At this point there was another knock at the door. At her bidding the door opened, and Jack Peterson stuck his head in. “Do you feel up to some company?”

  “Sure,” Emily said, “Come on in.”

  “I had to promise your doctor that I would only stay a minute. I just wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about you. How are you getting along?”

  “All right, I guess. I don’t think I’ll really feel like I’m recovering until I get out of the hospital.”

  “Well, I hope that will be soon. I spend a lot of time visiting hospitals, and I know they’re not much fun.” Turning to Brian, he asked, “Are you feeling better than when last I saw you?”

  Brian smiled and said, “Yes, some. I still have my moments, but I’m all right.”

  Now it was Emily’s turn to be concerned, “Brian, have you been sick?”

  “No, sweetheart, I’m fine,” Brian said, smiling warmly in her direction. “Jack came by here last Friday and found me feeling sort of low. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Emily looks tired,” the clergyman observed, “so I’m going to go, but can we pray together first?”

  “Emily is tired,” she announced after the minister had gone.

  “Do you want me to go out and guard the door so no one else will bother you?” Brian asked.

  “No, stay. I expect the tall, dark stranger will be along soon. I suppose you told him about that snide remark I made about him.” She was lying back in bed with her eyes closed, and Brian noticed with gratification that she had pushed the button for her medication.

  “I thought he deserved fair warning. I figured if he came to see you in the frame of mind you were in, you’d probably throw something at him.”

  Sure enough, Paul arrived within a few minutes. As per his usual custom, he approached the bed and leaned over with the intention of kissing her. She drew back as if in fear. Realizing how odd a gesture it was on her part, she said nervously, “I don’t think I’ve got anywhere you could kiss where it wouldn’t hurt.”

  With a quick, puzzled look in Brian’s direction, he said, “I see. Well, you’re looking better every day.”

  “I had no where to go but up in the looks department since Saturday. You could have rented me out to haunt houses. So what are you doing with yourself this week since you’re obviously not going to get that vacation in New England you wanted?” This was the first reference Emily had made to the cancelled wedding.

  Brian and Paul looked at one another briefly before the psychiatrist answered, “I’ve rearranged my schedule so that I can make that trip another time, and I’m working this week. I have to keep up with my bag of psychiatrist tricks, you know.” He grinned broadly.

  Emily looked sheepish, “Wasn’t that an awful thing to say? Especially about someone so sweet. You should have seen how rude I was yesterday to one of your colleagues.”

  Brian
explained to Paul that while the two of them had been banished from Emily’s room, with that he smiled in her direction, Dr. Vogler had sent one of the staff psychiatrists in to see Emily.

  “So you were rude to him; I wouldn’t worry too much, psychiatrists are quite accustomed to rude patients. What did he do that prompted your rudeness?” Paul asked.

  “I guess it wasn’t really anything he did. I was just in a terrible mood, and I probably made a lot of ridiculous inferences. I just felt right from the beginning that he had me figured out in his own mind and just wanted to force me to see myself his way. I’m sure it was my fault, but I felt that both the conversations I had with him were adversarial.”

  “How do you mean?” Paul asked thoughtfully.

  “Well for one thing he would ask me questions that he already knew the answers to, like a lawyer with a witness. And he didn’t want to talk about the things that I consider my problems, it was like he had his own agenda, and I shouldn’t get in the way. He wanted to talk about my childhood. Well, I expect that from a psychiatrist, so that’s fine. But he kept coming back to Brian. He wanted to know all about Brian. But it was obvious that he already knew about Brian from the questions he asked.”

  Brian seemed genuinely curious, “What did he want to know about me?”

  Emily showed signs of being uncomfortable with the conversation. “He just wanted to know all about you. It didn’t seem right somehow to be talking about you behind your back when I had been so ugly to you.”

  Paul asked, “You said you were rude to him because of the inferences you made. What inferences?”

  Emily considered the question, and finally answered, “It was the way he juxtaposed things, I thought he was making connections between things that I didn’t like. We were talking about my recovery from my childhood and my father, and I had said that I felt the two greatest influences on my recovery were my conversion to Christianity and my relationship with Brian. He didn’t say a word about my religion. The very next thing he said was to ask me how old Brian is, which it was obvious he already knew.”